


Fraternize

by meetmeatthecoda



Series: Finale Fixes [1]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lizzington - Freeform, Re-imagined, Season 7 finale, because, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25686337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: "And when he nonchalantly bends to retrieve a wine bottle and glass, looking for all the world like a carefree sommelier and not the shadowy disrupter of peace in her tumultuousexcuse for a life –Liz feels her blood start to heat."A chaptered fic re-imagining the kitchen scene, car ride scene, and safe house scene in the season 7 finale. T-rating. Lizzington. Three-shot. Part 1 of Finale Fixes.
Relationships: Elizabeth Keen/Raymond Reddington
Series: Finale Fixes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862632
Comments: 12
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

Bustling cooks and sizzling pans assault Liz as she enters the busy kitchen, pausing in the doorway as she immediately spots Red standing over the shoulder of the head chef, chattering animatedly to him about whatever’s cooking.

“Sorry it took so long, but there’s nowhere to park and apparently, the owner’s too cheap to hire a valet.”

She speaks loudly, right over whatever he was saying to the chef, impatience and anxiety already flickering through her veins at the sight of his turned back. He doesn’t turn around right away, but she hears him chuckle in response.

“If we had a valet, you’d walk right in,” he explains, his voice a low rumble even across the kitchen. “Without one, you park far away. By the time you get here, you’ve worked up an appetite.”

He finally turns to face her, peering at her from under the brim of his fedora.

“Admit it, _you’re a little hungry_.”

(And Liz grits her teeth at the little burst of heat that swirls through her stomach at his words, coupled with the look on his face, dark and suggestive, the innuendo annoying her because _yes_ , she’s hungry for _something_ and she _hates it_ –)

“I am,” she snaps, crossing her arms angrily. “ _For the truth_. Any chance _that’s_ on the menu?”

“Specialty of the house,” he returns, and she almost laughs out loud at the likelihood of that.

The skeptical expression on her face must tip him off to her thoughts because he speaks again.

“I’m never dishonest, only withholding,” he states, before he’s turning and striding slowly and powerfully across the kitchen, moving like a fish upstream as cooks and waiters part wordlessly around him without complaint, a force to behold, like always.

On the hook, helpless, and angry about it, Liz follows.

(Like always.)

They move slowly through the kitchen, Liz pursuing Red, the two of them verbally sparring, trading comments and evasions about the Kazanjian brothers, Maddy Tolliver, Ilya Koslov, all the shadowy figures from their past and present. They move in useless circles, no real answers revealed, treading water, like always, and Liz feels her frustration grow like flickering embers into a full-fledged flame, Red like the dam stubbornly holding back the water that could put her out. And when he nonchalantly bends to retrieve a wine bottle and glass, looking for all the world like a carefree sommelier and _not_ the shadowy disrupter of peace in her tumultuous _excuse for a life_ –

Liz feels her blood start to heat.

“I gave you this case to find Maddy Tolliver,” Red tells her, busy pouring a glass of wine, his gaze focused on the sloshing crimson liquid and not her fiery glare. “I think she’s alive, and I think she means us all harm – you, Agnes, me, Dom, Dembe, his imam.”

(And Liz doesn’t miss the order of Red’s concerns, herself first and Agnes second before Red himself, but the sheer frustration burning her insides overrides any pleasantly warm feelings at the thought.)

“Why?” she demands rudely.

Red looks taken aback.

“What difference does it make?” he asks, confusion coloring his tone.

And Liz almost screams because it makes _all the difference in the world_.

“Does she have a _reason_ to harm us? Did _you_ give her a reason?” she presses insistently, her voice getting louder as she removes her hands from where they’ve been stuffed in her pockets, fists clenched, trying to hold herself in check.

Red simply blinks at her, his brow furrowing.

“I’m sorry, are you upset with me?” he inquires politely.

And Liz’s restrained scream almost escapes her clenched teeth as hysterical laughter because _when isn’t she –_

_“Yes_ , I _am_ upset with you! All of this is because of whatever _you_ did to her!”

And she can see Red start to frown, his mouth pulling down at the corners, finally, _finally_ rising to take her bait, but not _really_ , because he never really gets _angry_ , and in a sick, twisted way, she _wants_ him to fight back, snap at her and lose his patience, because he’s always so ridiculously calm and composed and _she hates it –_

“Don’t put this on me,” he starts to say but the flames inside her are quickly burgeoning into a forest fire and she’s speaking over him, her voice rising, unable to stop herself –

“We’re only here because of _you!_ ”

– hurling accusations at him because it _feels good_ , blaming him for what she knows deep in her heart is all her fault because he takes it all without complaint –

“That’s not t—”

– and he’s trying to protest but she can barely hear him over the _roaring in her ears_ –

“Whatever _you_ did, whatever happened between the two of you –”

“Please –”

“– has put _all of us_ in this situation!”

“Please –”

“You _withhold information_ –”

“Please, don’t raise your –”

“You _won’t answer my questions_ –”

“– you’ve never heard me raise my voice –”

(And Liz could swear that her vision flares red with the violence of her anger at his words, how _dare_ he _chastise_ her like a _child_ , when she’s never felt more like a _woman_ than _when he’s looking at her_ –)

– and her voice is nearly at a desperate screech when her final words come –

_“You won’t tell me the truth!”_

– and she’s finally out of breath, the fire inside her keening for oxygen to continue burning bright and scalding, but her sudden silence finally let’s her hear what he’s been trying to say, forceful and angry with an odd look in his eyes –

“– but I’m _trying_ to tell you, this is _not_ my fault. Do you understand? This is not my f—”

But something’s wrong, his voice is getting breathy and he’s stuttering, he’s beginning to sway, gasping for air, grabbing at the counter –

“Not my f—”

And the fire inside her is burning out, cooling rapidly at the sight of him foundering for air, because _what is happening –_

“Not –”

And she’s never been more frightened in her life than the second she sees the glass and bottle slip from Red’s hands to fall and smash against the kitchen floor, shattering into pieces, wine pooling on the floor at her feet –

And she watches in horrified silence, things happening in slow motion, as Red himself starts to fall, collapsing to the floor, landing heavily in the puddle of wine, and Liz can only watch, frozen in icy fear, as his hat is knocked off by the impact –

And it’s that sight more than anything that finally spurs her into action – his hat, his object of power, his trademark, the one thing that is simply _Red_ – the sheer symbolism of it makes her move, Ressler’s cautionary words about his health echoing hollowly in her ears as she drops helplessly to her knees next to him.

“What is it? What’s happening? Reddington, can you hear me?” she gasps, reaching out to place her hands on his chest, trying to look into his fluttering eyes.

“Is he alright?”

Liz nearly jumps out of her skin at the unexpected voice of the chef, gathered behind her with several worried cooks because, like always, she completely forgot they weren’t alone. She ignores them for now, continuing to call Red’s name, desperate and scared.

“Red? Red!”

_(But he can’t hear her, he can’t see, nothing is making sense, his vision just blurry, flickering shapes and a voice echoing unintelligibly, a worried cry from far away that makes him frown.)_

“Reddington, can you hear me? _Reddington, can you hear me?”_

But he’s not responding, and they can’t sit here forever. She doesn’t know what’s wrong, but he needs help. Now.

Liz turns around and finally acknowledges the chef, speaks to him in clipped, hurried tones.

“I need a car. Yours. Anyone’s.”

And he’s looking fearfully at her, stuttering out a response that makes her icy heart sink with dread.

“We—we come by bus.”

And Liz almost screams again, this time out of sheer desperation and worry for the man, usually larger than life and infuriating her, now lying helplessly in a puddle of wine on the floor.

Thinking quickly, Liz makes a snap decision, one she is not at all sure is right, but the only one she has. She stands hurriedly, keeping an eye on Red, and pulls out her phone, dialing quickly.

“Are you still having me followed?”

Katarina must hear the urgency in her voice because she answers only with a clipped ‘five minutes’, accompanied by the screeching of tires.

She must have been in the area.

But Liz doesn’t have the presence of mind to care, stuffing her phone back in her pocket and whipping around to point at the chef.

“You. Help me.”

He complies without question, something about the steely look in her eyes apparently convincing him, hurrying forward to help heave Red up off the floor, managing to get him upright and between them both, an arm around each of their shoulders, with Liz murmuring to him all the while.

“Red? We have to get up, okay? We need to get you help. Can you walk? Let’s get up, come on now.”

She nearly cries in fear when all she receives from him in response is a strangled groan and focuses instead on steering him out of the kitchen and to the loading dock doors, tucked securely against her side.

(And the clinical side of her brain is trying desperately to diagnose him, noting the lack of external injuries, the inability to speak, the confusion, the lack of sagging in either side of his face, likely ruling out a stroke, his trouble walking, the way he’s leaning heavily against her, occasionally letting out a mumble that sounds oddly like her name and _oh Red, what’s wrong with you_ –)

And their slow procession finally pushes open the loading dock doors to see a black car idling in the lot before the back door flies open and Katarina leans out, taking one look at Red, staggering and blinking blearily between them, and shouts to her.

“Get in!”

The driver, one of Katarina’s cronies, leaps out of the car to help them.

(And Liz thinks she hears a grumble from Red next to her at the sight of Katarina, but she pushes it aside, more concerned with getting him inside the car so they can _go_ –)

With the help of the chef and Katarina’s man, she gets Red inside the car, slumping oddly across the back seat with his head landing in Katarina’s lap as Liz climbs in after him, the chef closing the door behind her.

“The building where you found me this morning,” Liz yells at Katarina’s driver. “We need to get him there, _now!_ ”

And tires screech as the car peals away from the restaurant, turns a corner, and speeds away.


	2. Chapter 2

Now that the car is moving, weaving in and out of traffic at high speed, and it actually feels like they’re _getting somewhere_ , Liz can halfway breathe again. She looks down and studies Red’s face for a short moment, concerned, but his head is resting on Katarina’s leg and he looks fairly calm, his eyes closed and face slack. But that gives her little comfort. Whatever trauma he’s enduring may not be visible from the outside.

(And the sight of Red laying prone in her mother’s lap gives her an itchy, uncomfortable feeling that she tries hard to ignore. At least for the time being.)

Mostly to distract herself, Liz addresses Katarina.

“Now you’re following me too?” she demands, recalling how quickly Katarina arrived at the restaurant.

“Simms, me, both of us, others. It’s a team effort,” her mother offers with a little smirk.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Liz snaps, irritated.

“You know I didn’t have to help.”

The statement sounds too much like a warning and Liz grits her teeth in response, the truth of it making her clench her jaw.

(Although incredibly thankful for the help, she’s becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of owing her mother anything.)

Liz turns to take her frustration out on the driver.

“Take Fullerton, it’s faster!” she barks. “So why _did_ you help?” she demands of Katarina, not really caring about the answer, eyeing Red’s shallow breathing.

“Because he’s important to you,” she states, and Liz feels her heart flutter in response. “And because he was once important to me. I don’t want him to die.”

(But Liz catches the look Katarina gives the man on her lap, cold and slightly disdainful, as she takes obvious pains not to touch him, and Liz has an awful feeling that she held back the word ‘yet’ from her last sentence.)

_(Red swims slowly back into consciousness, squinting up through blurry eyes, just managing to recognize the word ‘die’, echoing strangely as though underwater, as Katarina’s dreaded face ripples into view.)_

Suddenly, Red flails in Katarina’s lap, desperately trying to sit up and push away from her, straining toward Liz in a way that has her reaching for him.

“No! No, no, no, it’s—it’s okay, Red,” Liz clutches desperately at his shoulder. “Y—You don’t—we’re getting you help, okay? It’s okay.”

He turns toward her voice, unseeing, wild and afraid, and he looks so much like a scared little boy in that instant that, in one smooth, instinctive motion, Liz pulls him down onto _her_ lap instead, hearing him grunt softly at the impact of his head on her thighs.

“Shhh, it’s okay, Red,” she murmurs, stroking his head and feeling the scrub of his closely cropped hair against her fingertips, trying desperately to calm him when, to her surprise, he settles quickly at the sound of her voice.

_(And he feels his head suddenly pillowed on something soft and lovely, with a soothing touch ghosting over his hair and a familiar voice drifting toward him through the viscous water he’s trapped underneath, and it sounds like…Lizzie. Ah, Lizzie’s here. He’ll be all right because Lizzie’s here…)_

With Red settled once again for the time being, and protectiveness still coursing through her veins, Liz glares at Katarina.

“You nearly bled him to death.”

“For a truth that could save my life,” she answers immediately, and Liz can tell that she’s fishing.

“You know I have no idea what’s wrong with him,” she snaps impatiently. “A tumor, cancer, _indigestion?”_

(And even the hypothetical possibilities are making her stomach churn with nauseous fear.)

“I see him _every day_ , and I haven’t got a clue,” she continues, getting upset as she realizes how little he’s been telling her. “You two, the truths you won’t share, the secrets you keep? I’m tired of being caught in the middle.”

Car horns screech as they speed through an intersection and there’s silence for a long moment in the back seat.

Katarina breaks it.

“Do you know what the Sikorsky Archive is?”

(She’s trying to strike a match within Liz, relight her fire for her own cause, but Liz stamps it out furiously because she doesn’t want to burn anymore. She won’t be needlessly manipulated, not when Red’s life hangs in the balance. She won’t be fooled.)

“I don’t care.”

“It’s a blackma—”

_“I don’t care!”_

Her tone stops Katarina dead in her tracks, her expression shocked, but Liz feels no remorse.

“My only focus right now is saving him, do you understand? I’m grateful for your help, I truly am, because without you, we would be in serious trouble, but right now? _He is all I care about.”_

Her expression brooks no argument as she fiercely stares Katarina down, her eyes steely and her face hard, refusing to blink until she sees her mother’s jaw clench, and Liz knows she’s won.

(Although the icy coldness swiftly overtaking her eyes gives Liz the feeling that, one way or another, she’ll pay for what she’s just done.)

Liz grinds her teeth and turns back to the driver.

“Can’t you go any faster?” she demands.

Liz feels the car accelerate in response and absentmindedly rubs Red’s arm, desperately willing him to hang on.

When Katarina speaks again, it is quietly thoughtful, and vaguely foreboding.

“I didn’t think you were caught in the middle,” she muses. “Not after you saved my life.”

The implication is clear, the questioning of Liz’s loyalties, and she sighs, looking down at Red’s still form.

“It’s complicated,” she murmurs and, before she can stop herself, she covers his hand with her own.

His fingers twitch at her touch.

When Liz glances up at Katarina, it’s to see her eyeing their joined hands, her gaze cold and calculating.

“Seems simple to me.”


	3. Chapter 3

In a small room of Red’s hospital/safe house, Liz paces anxiously back and forth, glancing up every few seconds to look through the glass doors at Red, who is finally lucid and sitting upright on the exam table, listening to the doctor. Dembe is in the room too, having arrived shortly after Katarina dropped them off and sped away, Liz finally remembering to call him once Red was whisked away by his doctor, finally in the proper hands. Dembe had burst through the door, lacking his usual composure and not saying a word, just gently squeezing Liz’s arm before slipping into the room with Red.

Liz has been waiting since then.

(And it makes her a little sick to her stomach that she’s not allowed in there to sit with him, to hold his hand as he receives whatever troubling news that is making him look so somber, but she has to push aside the hurt and remind herself sternly that _she’s_ _not his wife –)_

“Agent Keen?”

Liz whips around, startled out of her thoughts.

“Yes? How is he?”

“We did an MRI,” the doctor starts, falling quickly into debriefing mode. “He had a cerebral edema, which we treated with –”

“Sorry,” Liz interrupts tactlessly, too frazzled to be more polite. “I didn’t mean what are his symptoms. I meant, what’s the cause? What’s…What wrong with him?”

The doctor looks away, growing visibly uncomfortable.

“I, uh, can’t say.”

Liz’s heart sinks.

“Because he told you not to?”

The doctor looks down at his feet, sheepish and guilty. Liz glances over the doctor’s shoulder at Red, still sitting on the exam table, looking exhausted but determined, jaw clenched and studiously avoiding her gaze.

(He doesn’t trust her.)

“You can go in and see him now,” the doctor offers instead, just as Dembe opens the door and emerges from the room.

“Liz, Raymond is –”

“Will he see me?” she interrupts yet again, unable to contain herself.

“– waiting for you,” Dembe finishes calmly, looking at her evenly before turning to the doctor.

“Thank you for everything, doctor. If you’ll follow me, I’ll walk you out…”

They depart the safe house, leaving Liz alone with the looming prospect of talking to Red. While she’s desperate to see him, desperate to hear his familiar warm voice wash over her and eradicate the disturbing memory of his strangled breathing and muddled speech, she’s nervous.

(And she can still feel his head on her thighs.)

Taking a deep breath, Liz walks into the room, pulling the glass door shut behind her.

Red doesn’t visibly acknowledge her, just starts speaking impersonally to the wall, and Liz can immediately tell that he’s embarrassed.

“I’ve had the most…interesting headache,” he rumbles, and Liz feels something ease inside her at the sound of his voice as it should be. “Colors and images. And acid trip…but with pain.”

Liz feels her throat tighten, distinctly remembering the sight of his glazed eyes casting about, confused and unseeing.

“I’m glad you can joke about it,” she says stiffly. “It terrified me.”

Red shifts uncomfortably on the exam table, the paper crinkling loudly underneath him. He’s still not looking at her.

“Thank you…for getting me here.”

It sounds genuine, if regretful, and Liz feels obligated to tell him the whole truth.

“I had help.”

That gets his attention, finally swiveling his head to look at her, and their eyes meet. Liz gazes back at him with concern, observing his heavy eyelids and bloodshot eyes, and he looks like he could lie down and sleep for days.

“…Did you?”

She’s about to answer him when an unfamiliar motion at his side catches her attention and she manages to tear her gaze away from his face to glance down at the hand resting on his thigh.

It’s trembling.

(And the unexpected sight of him exhibiting any kind of weakness, any frailty, any visible clue to his mystery illness, has her resisting the urge to wrap her arms around him and _cry_.)

Red follows her gaze and quickly, self-consciously tucks his shaking hand behind his leg, turning to resume staring blankly at the opposite wall.

(Shutting her out.)

And, suddenly, the sight of his trembling hand pulling her over the brink of something invisible, all the tension and fear of the last few hours comes crashing down on Liz, and tears gather in her eyes before she can stop them.

“Red,” she croaks, desperate and upset, and her tone gets his attention, has him whipping right back around to face her.

She wraps her arms around her middle in some misguided attempt at self-preservation.

“Red, _what’s wrong with you?”_

He blinks at her, confused and concerned at her sudden change in demeanor.

(He still doesn’t _get it_.)

“Red,” she says, trying in vain not to let any tears fall. “We were talking about her and then you just – you just _collapsed,_ and I didn’t know what _to do_. I know I pushed you too far and I’m _sorry_ , I was just so – _so upset_ , but _please_ , tell me what’s wrong. I understand if you don’t trust me but please, if nothing else, just tell me how to _help you_ next time, I need to know _what to do_ , because, Red, I’ve never felt so _helpless_ , and I was _so scared you were going to_ –”

But then Red starts to sway where he’s still seated on the table, her sudden onslaught of emotion too much for him in his weakened state, and Liz surges forward to support him, wrapping her arms around him to keep him upright, all the while babbling a self-chastising stream of words.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, god, I’m so stupid, you should be resting, I’m so sorry –”

And she feels him leaning heavily against her, a sensation far too reminiscent of their perilous journey here, and Liz just focuses on supporting him, desperate to help.

(Because, more than anything, she wants to be a salve to his burns, the balm to his wounds, however mysterious and unknown, and she just wishes he would _let her help him_ because yes. Yes, it’s about time.)

It takes a moment of deep breathing on his part, his back rising and falling in a steady and comforting rhythm under her hands, before Red has enough strength to pull back and look her in the eye.

“Lizzie…” he murmurs, soft and deep and so, so tired. “I don’t want to tell you because I don’t want you to feel any obligation to care for me. That’s not your responsibility. You have your own life, Agnes, and…my problems are my own.”

And Liz can see the earnestness in his eyes, the complete and utter willingness to suffer alone, all to spare her.

_Like always._

“Lizzie…I’m just an old man.”

And the tears she’s been valiantly holding in finally spill free and cascade down her face, unable to stand the worthlessness shining out from Red’s precious, lined face.

_“No,”_ Liz disagrees fiercely, cupping his face with one hand and reaching down to clutch his still trembling hand with the other. “No, Red, you are… _so much more than that_.”

And she brings his shaking hand up to her lips to place a fervent kiss to his palm.

(And she could never think of him as an inconvenience, an irritation, _a burden_ , because she loves him _far too much_ for that and she just wishes _he believed it_ –)

And the way he’s looking at her right now, his eyes shining with tears, love and gratitude written all over his face, warm and trusting, only brings into sharp relief the way her mother looked at her in the car on the way here, cold and calculating and suspicious.

Evil.

And the next words out of Liz’s mouth are some of the easiest she’s said in years.

“Katarina is in a safe house about three miles east of my apartment. She always has one man posted outside and two or three more inside with her. There are no other exits out of the apartment, you’ll have her cornered easily.”

Red simply blinks at her, his lips slightly parted in shock.

“Lizzie, what –”

“If you don’t think she should be saved, then that’s enough for me,” Liz says firmly. “But I would ask you to consider helping her disappear. I know you don’t think she’s worth saving – especially after she tortured you for information – but she did help me get you here today. And I couldn’t have done it without her, Red.”

“Then why are you selling her out?” Red asks, still clearly dumbfounded.

“Because I chose you over her today and she’s finally realized that I’ll keep doing it,” Liz says simply, giving a little shrug. “And as long as I keep fraternizing with the enemy then, in her eyes? I’m an enemy as well.”

Red can only blink at her, disbelieving, and Liz sighs.

“I’m tired of it, being caught in the middle,” Liz murmurs, shaking her head. “But I have no reason to trust her and _every reason_ to trust you. You’re right, she’s a danger to us. You, Agnes, me.”

And Liz presses another kiss to his hand, warm and grounding, like a promise.

(And she doesn’t miss that it’s stopped trembling.)

“From now on? _She’s_ the enemy. I chose you, Red. And, if you’ll let me, I want to help you.”

Liz tightens her grips on his hand.

“Whatever’s ailing you, Red. We’ll get through it, you and I. Together.”


End file.
